


Beginning Where It Ends

by quoth_the_ravenclaw



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent, College, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Papa Bear Burt, Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2018-04-12 01:48:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4460642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quoth_the_ravenclaw/pseuds/quoth_the_ravenclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I didn’t get in,” He hears himself say. Hearing the words come from his own mouth seems even more final than reading them on the letter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beginning Where It Ends

Ever since that day in November – the one where Blaine found him in the hallway and let him cry on his shoulder and whispered all the sweetest nothings in his ear and paid for their coffee even though it was Kurt’s turn and then kissed him senseless in the Lima Bean parking lot and  _then_  made him send off his pathetic – Kurt hasn’t thought about it. Or, at least, he’s tried. He has smiled and carried on and ignored the roiling feeling in the bottom of his gut that never really goes away, and he’s gotten through the year.

But now it’s April, and everyone’s buzzing with the excitement of acceptance letters and plans for the future - Finn to OSU and Mercedes to UCLA and Mike and Artie to Point Park – and today is the day.

“Do you have yours?” Rachel asks from her spot perched on the couch.  She’s wearing a particularly hideous sweater just for occasion and matched it with her tights, and if Kurt actually throws up from nervousness, at least he can blame it on the hideousness of her wardrobe.

It’s like some weird grown up version of show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours, he thinks as he pulls his envelope from his messenger bag, the one addressed to  _Mr. Kurt Hummel_ with the New York, New York return label.

Rachel pulls out hers. And it’s bedazzled. Of course.

He doesn’t think about the fact that her envelope looks like it might be heavier than his, or the fact that she had to wait a whole week longer to get it. He doesn’t.

“Well, here we go!” Rachel says. Together they slip their fingers under the flaps, slide it off the flimsy adhesive on the underside, and open it up. Kurt takes a deep breath. This is it.

“And three, two, one-“

_To Mr. Kurt Hummel,_

_We here at the New York Academy of Dramatic Arts would like to thank you for your interest in our program. As you may know, the performing arts are a highly competitive field. We receive many talented applicants each year. However, admittance is limited, and we are unable to accept all the individuals we would like._

_We regret to inform you that we cannot offer you admittance into our program at this time-_

Everything goes eerie quiet, like he’s trapped himself in a vacuum. His breath feels caught in his chest, and he can vaguely hear Rachel shrieking in the background, but nothing really registers.

_We regret to inform you that we cannot offer you admittance into our program at this time._

“Kurt, what about you?”

_We cannot offer you admittance into our program at this time._

_We cannot offer you admittance._

“Kurt? Did you get a scholarship, too? Let me see your…  _oh,”_  Rachel says, and there’s so much goddamn pity in her voice. He can’t fucking stand it.

“I need to go,” he says, and he shoots up out of his seat because he can’t be here anymore, not in this house with Rachel and her bedazzled envelope and ugly sweater and sparkling future and her goddamn  _pity_.

“Kurt! Kurt, wait! Don’t you want to-” She begins, but he really _doesn’t._ Whatever it is, he doesn’twant to hear it, and he doesn’t want to cry over it, and he _really_  doesn’t want Rachel Berry to see him do it. He slams the front door behind him as he stalks to his car, throwing it into gear, and by the time Rachel and her sympathy make it out to the front lawn he’s already roaring out of the driveway.

He makes it four intersections before his thoughts catch up with him, all the repressed worry and fears and humiliation, and he wonders how long it will take before everyone knows- if everyone already  _knows_. If everyone knew except him.

_To Mr. Kurt Hummel_

Kurt Hummel who couldn’t get a lead. Kurt Hummel who couldn’t make it to New York. Kurt Hummel who was never good enough and just didn’t know it.

His hands are shaking on the wheel and his vision is blurry, and he realizes it’s because he’s crying, god he’s crying in his car in the middle of some stupid back road in the middle of Ohio, and he will always be stuck in the middle of stupid fucking Ohio, and wow, he is way too much of a mess to be driving right now.

He pulls over to the side of the road and tries to get control of himself, tries to stop his sobbing, because this is going to be hell on his complexion. His hand is grabbing for his phone in the cup holder and before he even thinks about it, he’s pressing Blaine’s name on the speed dial. It rings twice and then-

“Hey, beautiful,” Blaine says, light and smooth and not at all patronizing or sympathetic or (god forbid) falsely encouraging and, fuck, Kurt can’t take it. He’s sobbing and he knows it, and wow, he hasn’t had a phone call like this with Blaine since Karofsky kissed him in the locker room.

“Kurt?” Blaine says. There’s an immediate shift in his tone, something that sparks electric down Kurt’s spine, makes him want to sit up straight. “Kurt, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Jesus, where are you?”

Oh god, Blaine thinks he’s hurt. Because Kurt called and just started crying on the line like an idiot, and  _of course_ Blaine thinks he’s hurt, they’re in the middle of stupid fucking Ohio, for Christ’s sake, and the last time he had a phone call with Blaine like this was when Karofsky kissed him in the locker room, god, he-

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Kurt chokes out, and he tries to get him crying under control, but the more he tries to stop, the harder it is. “I’m fine,” He manages, after a moment. “I’m fine, really. I just-” He cuts off with a sniffle.

“It’s okay. Just talk to me, tell me what’s going on,” Blaine says. His tone is calmer, but Kurt can tell he’s still worried, and Kurt feels like an idiot right now. But he knows Blaine won’t think he’s an idiot. He’s just Blaine, the boy who fell in love with him over coffee and biscotti. The roiling feeling in the pit of his stomach starts up again. He thinks the words will get caught up in his throat, but instead they tumble out, quick and simple.

“I didn’t get in,” He hears himself say. Hearing the words come from his own mouth seems even more final than reading them on the letter.

“Oh,” Blaine says.

There’s silence between them for a while, not quite uncomfortable, but not comforting either. Finally, Blaine says, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Kurt laughs. “No,” He says, because that’s all he’s done, is talk about it. Talk about NYADA and New York and his application and what if he gets in and what if he  _doesn’t_  and _Not everyone takes the same path, Kurt, you shouldn’t feel bad if-_ “No. I really don’t.”

“Well, then, I could come over?” Blaine says, his voice slipping into the tone it takes on when he’s trying to fix all the world’s problems by himself. “We can eat ice cream and watch Project Runway, and you can tear apart all the designers and tell me how you’d do it better?”

Kurt laughs again, sniffs and wipes at his face. He doesn’t dare check himself in the mirror- he already knows his face is red and blotchy and in dire need of emergency repair. “I’m not even home right now,” he admits, though there’s more humor in his voice than self-depreciation. “I may or may not have had an emotional breakdown in the middle of the highway and then pulled over to call you.”

“Well then I’ll detour to pick up a pint of Mint Chocolate Chip, and by the time I get over, you’ll be home and have had time to do whatever it is I know you’ll want to do with your face creams,” Blaine offers.

 “You had me at Project Runway,” Kurt says with another laugh. He takes a deep breath and shifts the gears out of park, pulling out of his spot on the shoulder.

“Hey,” Blaine says, voice light and smooth again in a way that’s just for Kurt. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Kurt says. The roiling feeling is still there, but it doesn’t weigh over him so heavily anymore. He takes another breath. This is going to be okay.  _He_  is going to be okay.

\- - -

It’s 11:37 when Burt pulls up to the house. The lights are on, but it’s quiet inside, the low drone of the television in the living room the only sound.

“I’m back!” He says, loud enough for Kurt to hear, wherever he is. Blaine’s car is parked outside and while Burt trusts his son, teenagers are teenagers, and there are certain awkward situations he’d like to avoid if at all possible (mainly, seeing his son and his son’s boyfriend in  _any_  state of undress).

 “I thought we already talked about you having boys sleep over,” He starts to say, but trails off when he reaches the living room. Kurt’s passed out on the couch, his head on Blaine’s shoulder, their legs entwined. Blaine’s head is tipped back, eyes closed, mouth open and drooling just a little bit, one hand entwined with Kurt’s, the other in his hair.

There’s an empty carton of Ben and Jerry’s on the coffee table and one of those fashion shows Kurt watches on the television, and on the floor there’s a letter that’s been crumpled up and smoothed out again and crumpled some more. Burt bends over to pick it up and sees the NYADA heading and doesn’t need to read it to know what it says. There are a small number of things that could cause his son to eat an entire carton of ice cream, and an acceptance letter from his dream school isn’t one of them.

“Dad?” Kurt murmurs sleepily. Burt turns to see him blinking his eyes open. “What-”

“It’s alright, go back to sleep,” He says. Kurt only nods and cuddles further into Blaine. Burt should wake them up, should give them a lecture about personal boundaries, should make Blaine go home. Instead, he grabs the quilt hanging over the back of the couch and drapes it over both of them.

“Goodnight, kid,” He says, and flicks off the light.

\- - -

Blaine wakes up to the smell of pancakes and syrup.

“Good morning, Starshine, the world says hello!” Kurt’s voice rings out sweetly as he waltzes into the room, already dressed and groomed and far too put together for nine am on a Saturday morning. Blaine grumbles in response and tries to bury his face further into the couch. Into  _Kurt’s_  couch. Wait. What?

He shoots up then, and looks at Kurt in confusion. He tries to form a coherent question as to why he’s here and why Burt hasn’t killed him yet, but, again, nine am on Saturday morning, and all that comes out is a series of unintelligible grunts. Kurt just laughs and presses a hot mug into Blaine’s hand.

“Here. Drink,” He says.

Blaine takes a sip, grateful as he feels the coffee warm its way down his throat, letting the caffeine seep into his bloodstream. “You know my coffee order,” He says with a grin.

Kurt smiles and leans in to kiss him, closed mouth and quick, because Kurt is adamant in his anti-morning breath stance. “Eat breakfast with me?” He asks.

“Of course,” Blaine says, moving forward to catch Kurt in another kiss, this one deeper, slower, with just a tease of his tongue on Kurt’s lower lip, before Kurt pulls back, flushed and beautiful and  _perfect_ , fuck whatever the New York Academy of Dramatic Art thinks.

“I love you,” He breathes out. He feels Kurt melt against him, and for a moment he thinks Kurt might forget about his morning breath policy and the pancakes in the kitchen, but then he pulls back with a small smile- one of the ones that only Blaine gets to see.

“And I love you,” He says, soft and serious. His smile turns mischievous. “But I don’t love your breath. No more of that until someone brushes their teeth. Now up! If we don’t eat before Finn rises from his hibernation, there will be no more pancakes for us.” He jumps up and he’s off to the dining room before Blaine can even try for one last kiss. Reluctantly, Blaine leaves his cozy nest on the couch, clutching his coffee like a lifeline. He freezes when he sees Burt standing in the doorway.

“Morning, kid,” Burt says.

“Oh,” Blaine says, and wow he really loaded that up with eloquence and charm didn’t he? Burt likes him, he knows this, but he’s not so sure Burt likes him when he’s fallen asleep in Kurt’s house with Kurt. (Fully clothed and totally innocent and on the couch, but still, Blaine’s track record of Hummel household sleepovers is less than stellar.) “I- uh- Hi, Mister Hummel. Sir.”

“Burt.”

“Right. Burt,” Blaine says with a timid smile.

Finn wanders down, rubbing his eyes and yawning not unlike a bear. “Mailman’s here,” He says. “I’d get it, but, uh, you know, he doesn’t really like me after the whole car hitting thing.”

“I’ll get it,” Blaine offers, eager to have an excuse to not being in eyesight of Burt for a few moments.

“I’ll come with you,” Burt says, and Blaine makes a very conscious effort not to show the fear on his face. To be fair, Burt hasn’t threatened his life- he hasn’t even really implied anything, either. But still, Blaine likes all his limbs as they are and he’d prefer not to take his chances. So he nods and flashes Burt a smile that he hopes is more charming than frightened.

Among all the things he’s done in his life (including the fiasco that was the GAP attack), getting the mail at his boyfriend’s house while his boyfriend’s father silently stands over him is probably among the most awkward of all his experiences. He shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, pulling out the stack of envelopes and trying very hard to avoid eye contact without seeming like he’s trying to avoid eye contact.

A moment passes, and this whole situation is  _seriously not getting any less awkward_. Finally, Blaine straightens up, stack of mismatched envelopes and catalogues (and the latest issue of Vogue, he notes with excitement, but now is  _so not the time_ ) cradled awkwardly in his arms and finally he looks at Burt a little helplessly, unsure of what to do.

Burt just wordlessly takes the stack of mail from him and stares at him for a long moment before sighing and opening his mouth to speak and  _this is it_ , Blaine thinks,  _this is the end_.

 “I wanna thank you,” Burt says, and  _wait, what?_

“For being with Kurt last night. I know he didn’t get into that school he wanted, and, well, I’m just glad you were there with him.” He claps Blaine on the shoulder. “You’re good for him. You’re good for each other.”

 Blaine is just sort of stuck frozen for a moment, his mouth working, trying to form the right words but how is he supposed to respond to that? “I love him,” He blurts out, and, god, what made him say  _that_?

Burt smiles. “Yeah. I know,” he says and turns around to start back towards the house.

 “Well, are you coming or what?” He shouts over his shoulder when Blaine doesn’t follow. “Because if I know one thing, it’s that when Finn is in the house, food don’t last too long.”

\- - -

Kurt has just set the table and put down breakfast, slapping Finn’s hands away -  _“We have utensils for a reason, Finn!” -_  when Burt and Blaine walk in. He looks back and forth from father to boyfriend. Blaine’s got this shell-shocked sort of grin on his face, and Burt looks like. Well. Pretty much the way he always looks, and there’s no blood anywhere, so Kurt assumes whatever talk his dad decided to have with Blaine went well.

Blaine sits down next to him and laces their fingers together, squeezing gently and smiling at him, and Kurt melts a little bit.

“Hey, Kurt,” Burt says, pulling them both out of their rose-tinted daze. “There’s something for you here. Something about being fit?” He slaps a thick envelope down on the table in front of them. Next to him, Blaine goes stiff.

Kurt picks up the envelope, addressed to a  _Mr. Kurt Hummel_  with a New York, New York return label, and turns it over in his hands in confusion. “What? It’s from- from FIT… But I’ve never even-”

 “You should open it,” Blaine says suddenly. Everyone at the table looks at him and he flushes, turns in on himself just a little bit. “I mean. You don’t have to- it- it’s probably just an ad or something- I just. Thought that maybe. Maybe you should open it.”

Kurt raises an eyebrow, and so does Burt, and, wow, apparently silently-judging-you is a genetic sort of thing.

“Alright,” Kurt says slowly, leveling Blaine with a curious gaze as he slips his finger under the envelope flay, pulls it up from the cheap adhesive, opens it. Blaine’s got this weird energy about him, like he is simultaneously going to explode from excitement  _and_  throw up everywhere.

Kurt gives Blaine one last look before turning to the envelope. It’s just a piece of paper. Simple. Folded. Stamped at the top left corner with the FIT logo.

_Dear Kurt,_

_Congratulations! I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted for enrollment into our Fashion Design program for the Fall of 2012. Admission is highly competitive, and you are to be commended on your achievement. Students entering this year’s class will become part of a community alive with creative energy and surrounded by people who love what they do._

_Enclosed you will find an enrollment form and on campus housing information. Housing is limited, so it is suggested that you give an early response. Again, congratulations on your accomplishments. I wish you the best and hope to see you in the fall!_

_Sincerely,_

_Joanne Arbuckle  
Dean, School of Art and Design_

 Kurt blinks and startles a little when he feels tears pricking the corners of his eyes, and, really, he shouldn’t be crying, not after last night, but his heart feels weird inside him, like it’s going to jump out of his throat any moment, and his stomach won’t stop twisting around inside him and  _none of this makes sense_.

“What’s it say, kid?” Burt asks. Kurt sniffs and swallows and collects himself because he is not going to cry. He offers up the paper, hands trembling a little.

“It says. It says I got in. But that doesn’t make sense. How could I- I never even applied. And- and they’d want to see a portfolio, they’d want to see my designs, you don’t just  _get accepted_  to FIT,” He says, and he knows he’s rambling, but he can’t seem to stop himself. He doesn’t know whether he’s supposed to be happy or sad or confused and whether the twisting in his stomach is good or bad or if-

"Oh my god, what if it's a scam?" He says.

“Kurt,” Blaine begins, but Kurt won’t let him finish.

 “What if it’s some stupid practical joke or something-”

“ _Kurt_ -”

 “-And whoever sent it is just- just- just  _laughing_ at me because I’m never going to go to New York, and everyone knew it but me, and-”

“Kurt!” Blaine exclaims and grabs both his hands, forcing him to make eye contact. Kurt bites his lips and exhales because he thought he’d gotten over the whole never doing anything with his life thing, but apparently not. And Blaine’s just looking at him like he’s just the most perfect thing ever and he’s obviously not but, whatever, and then Blaine smiles.

“Kurt, it’s not a scam. Or a joke,” He says, rubbing a thumb over Kurt’s hand in a way that placates him every time.

“But- I- they’d need a portfolio, and I…”

Blaine blushes and averts his gaze for a second. “I may or may not have…  _borrowed_  some of your designs to send in.”

Kurt stares at him in disbelief.

“And. Um. Some photos of your Gaga outfit, too,” He adds bashfully.

“You?  _You’re_  the reason I haven’t been able to find my sketchbook in months?”

 “It’s just that you were so worked up when you sent in your NYADA application, and you were so worried that you wouldn’t get to go to New York, and, Kurt, there is  _no one_  who is meant to be in New York more than you. So I sent in your application. I didn’t mean to overstep or anything, I just. I wanted your senior year to be magical,” Blaine says, nervous and sincere and in love all at once.

“Blaine Warbler,” Kurt says. The roiling in his stomach is back, but this time it is definitely good. “I cannot believe you.”

“Sorry.”

“You are without a doubt the most presumptuous, wonderful, best boyfriend in the entire world,” Kurt says, and he can’t contain himself anymore, pancakes be damned. He nearly knocks over his chair in his attempt to get closer to Blaine, but it doesn’t matter, because then he’s kissing his boyfriend, his beautiful, wonderful, perfect boyfriend, his boyfriend who he will drag to New York and share a shitty apartment with and have lots of fantastic sex with and also maybe marry someday, and wow, if that thought doesn’t start up a whole new sort of twisting in his stomach, but he doesn’t mind at all because-

“I love you,” He murmurs, resting his forehead against Blaine’s and just breathing him in. He feels most than sees Blaine smile, feels the vibrations as he hears him say, “I love you, too… though I thought you said no more kissing until I brushed my teeth.”

“Special circumstance,” Kurt says, before leaning in and kissing him again, and god,  _he loves this boy_ , he really does.

At the head of the table, Burt Hummel coughs.

They have the decency to blush as they pull apart, but Blaine squeezes his hand under the table.

“So. Um. Can I eat my pancakes yet?” Asks Finn from across the table, and Kurt can’t help it, he bursts into laughter, doubled over his plate. When he finally gets his laughter under control, he just looks over at Blaine, who just smiles and looks right back at him like he’s the best thing in the world. And right now, he kind of feels like he is.


End file.
